"clitorial" poems
I smell your scent
when i grip the steering wheel -
woody, strong, earthy
the essence of fungus buried in loam
but still, in a good way.
Even if i wash my hands
with chlorine,
you stick like eclipse
on a glorious sun -
the spine of a murderer
Oh, you have chiseled so **** well,
incorporated it into the spaces
of your lumbar discs.
And i thought i saw you
in a portrait of a gentleman
i almost choked laughing myself to death
for no single bone of yours is ever gentle
nor a MAN.
We were close
but before i reached clitorial ******
you said her name inside my mouth.
The grit of a shotgun pierced like million bullets of a machine gun
and i convulsed with the eruption of pain. The smell of sandalwood
on leathered steering wheel
swapped with decayed collar bone of pretend.
And i and death never felt as close
as my own eyelashes.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC